Christmas Shopping (Stories About Me)

It's a major shopping day for most retailers and - I suppose - the first official shopping day of the Christmas Season.  Time was, I liked to get out in all the "bustle" and mingle with the crowd and pick up a few gifts.  That adventure doesn't hold much value with me any more, people are not especially jovial any more.

This "Story About Me" would often come about as we approached the holiday season....

When I was a kid, living in Cedartown, Georgia, our family always seemed to manage to fit in one or two trips to Atlanta for Christmas Shopping each year.  These occasions were pretty memorable, sometimes they might include some "pre-gift" purchases like a fancy pair of cowboy boots (the pointy toes of which exactly matched the indentations in my big sister's shins), a coat or maybe a book.

On a typical shopping day, we would split up with a plan to meet back at a certain time.  At some point early on I wanted to be with Dad because he would typically work his way over to the "Nut Center" and buy a bag of chocolate covered peanuts.

These visits would aways include a visit to the pinnacle of retail department stores in the south: Rich's.  Many times the one at the Greenbriar Mall in Marietta...

...but in the early days, it was always the downtown Rich's in Atlanta (think "Macy's" on Miracle on 34th Street).  It was a mecca of multi-story shopping, but most of all, it was the home of The Pink Pig ...

...I am pretty sure I remember riding the Pink Pig at least once when it soared (soared?) above the heads of shoppers in the toy department.  I know I rode it at least once when it was stationed outside on the roof of Rich's (for another -more detailed- description of the experience read Chris Queen's post from last year).

On some of these trips, I might end up hanging around with my much older brother and sister - I was under the impression that they didn't want me around, but perhaps that wasn't really the case.  They liked to pick on me and of course, I enjoyed being obnoxious; but they also served as a buffer between me and the disappointments of growing up.

On one particular trip while I was in the company of my siblings, I saw my Dad taking a scooter across the parking lot.  I knew it was mine, my brother and sister were too old for scooters, they tried to convince me that Dad was probably just helping the people at the store.  Despite my childish naivete, I didn't buy it.  I think I began to doubt Santa Claus at that point. 

My scooter was not quite this vintage - picture a trimmed
down 1960's version in powder blue without the fins

Fortunately, I received the scooter as a gift from Mom and Dad - before Christmas.

Those shopping trips would usually run late into the evening and if I played my cards right, I could go to sleep in the back seat (sometimes in the floorboard - an unheard of luxury today) and if I remained asleep when we got home (or was able to mount a convincing performance) - I could get carried into the house.

I remember one weeknight trip, my sister and I took with Mom after school, we did some quick shopping in Cobb County.  On our return trip, I remember how thrilled I was to see snowflakes - LARGE, fluffy snowflakes - peppering the windshield in a mesmerizing fashion.  As the glorious white substance accumulated, we barely made it over the arching railroad bridge on East Avenue.  Just when I thought it couldn't get any better, I later learned that school was cancelled for the next day. 

What a magical Season, indeed!

Worst Spanking (Stories About Me)

I am not sure why this story happens to be the first in my new "Stories About Me" category, but it is.

In thinking about these stories, I realized that the telling of these stories may sometimes be different from their original rendering simply because they were sometimes told in conjunction with something we were discussing at the time.

For instance, I used the word "spanking" in my title - mainly because I thought it did not sound as harsh as the word we always used to describe corporal punishment:  "whipping" or in the vernacular - "WHOOPING". . .

It always seemed important for my brother and sister ( who were much older than me) to point out that they received far more whippings than I did as a child.  For some strange reason, this always made me feel guilty - as if I should have demanded spankings at the hands of our parents. I did, in fact, receive fewer spankings, but now I like to point out that it was because I was a much better behaved child.

Being a compliant child, I probably was a little easier to manage - but the fact is, by the time I arrived, my parents were a little more mellow.

I do remember the worst whipping I ever received - in fact if memory serves me correctly - I received TWO whippings on this particular occasion. 

Jim and Ruth Barnette lived next door to us when I was a kid in Cedartown, Georgia.  Next to them, lived my best friend, Steve. 

Steve and I were the same age and had been fast friends since before Kindergarten.  I think sometimes, that it may have been a friendship of convenience but we really did have other kids in the neighborhood.  Unfortunately one was erratic and unpredictable in his behavior and the other was a girl.

Jim and Ruth kept a beautiful yard. There were shrubs, green grass, and flowers - in fact during the early summer we had to move to the far side of the road when walking in front of their house, just to avoid all the "June Bugs". 

I don't know why but on one particular day, Steve and I targeted Jim and Ruth for mischief.
My family had grilled out some time earlier and Steve and I had come upon the idea of mixing the used ashes and charcoal with water to form some sort of brew.  We were always finding reasons to mix stuff with water:  on several occasions we concocted "Ant Cures" and proceeded to pour the compound on ant hills in my yard; another time we discovered that when you briskly stir a charcoal and water mixture, it will produce a foam - like soap - which is why we tried to scrub my patio with it.

So we ended up with a bucket of water and charcoal and nothing to do.

To this day, I do not know who came up with the idea - mischief happens that way, it just kind of evolves- but somehow we noticed that Jim and Ruth were not at home.  So we took our bucket of gray matter over to their carport.  There we commenced to pouring the mixture into just about anything that would hold liquid:  an unoccupied flower pot, a pair of Ruth's outdoor slippers, the indention in the seat of Jim's riding lawn mower.

I seem to remember something deliciously satisfying about darting around from evil deed to evil deed - almost like opening gifts at Christmas.

My memory is fuzzy on details at this point but I do recall running to hide when I heard my Mom calling me.  I think we had already finished our work, but like Adam and Eve - it only took the sound of a voice to snap me back into reality and to allow conviction to seize me.

I remember hiding behind a shrub at the corner of our house.

I think that was when I got my first whipping.
The second one came after Jim talked to my parents - he came to our back door and I remember hearing him say something about not wanting to get us boys in trouble.

To add insult to injury, I later learned that Steve's parents had received a similar call from Jim and -get this - Steve received "a good talking to" from his Dad  . . .

... a good talking to!?!?!

He tried to raise the ante by saying that his Dad could talk pretty hard at times . . . yeah tell that to my behind.

There were all kinds of lessons for me in this little episode.  I learned about conviction, guilt; I learned about how sin can bring momentary pleasure; I think I even learned a little about redemption - once the price was paid for my sin (in this case, my punishment) my relationship to my parents was restored as well as my relationship with the neighbors.

In my life today, redemption still works that way only I trust in One who has ultimately taken the punishment for all of my evil deeds (as well as the evil deeds of Steve and everybody else in the world)  - that having been done, corrects my relationship with my heavenly Father and with everything else in His creation.

Stories About Me

I'm launching a new category today.
It will sound a little narcissistic but the category title is "Stories About Me".

When Ab and AA were very small, they liked stories; and one of our mutually favorite past times in the car or at home before bed was for me to tell a "Story About Me". 

Confidentially, I probably liked this mostly because it allowed me to talk about myself in an uninterrupted fashion (I'm just that shallow).  On the other hand, I truly did view it as a means of preserving the family heritage.

Now these were not deep stories and there were no amazing adventures (we didn't sail the Mississippi with Huck Finn) - they were just quaint little tales about memories that stood out for me.. often for no particular reason.

My kids are getting older and have entered a new era, Ab - my middle schooler and AA - nearly nine, they fill any otherwise quiet time with their DSI's or - on better days - with reading.   They hardly ever ask for stories about me anymore.

Once recently, we talked about some of these stories and it occurred to me that they were seeping away from their memories.

One of the intentional purposes of this blog is to provide some written record that our kids can enjoy. 
So from time to time, I will try and throw in one of these "Stories About Me".  Perhaps you will find something there that will trigger a memory or two for you.